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Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Soon
Sweet
Land
Fleet
Felt
Roam
Dream
Steals
Home
Sadly
Heart
Stealing
Sea

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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
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The true poet dreams being awake.
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Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which who listen had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears.
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Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.
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How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
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Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door.
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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.
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If dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold!
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I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which bear them.
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Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.
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How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty.
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In every thing that relates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the world.
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By myself walking, To myself talking.
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